Capital Chaos
by Dead Decoy
Summary: Following the rebellion, life goes on in the Capitol, though nothing will ever be the same. A collection of oneshots.
1. Bad Dog

A person would think the rebellion hadn't even happened.

Capitol residents, in all their colorful splendor, walked down the streets with their strange pets and flying drones as they had for many decades. Some made small talk, and even tiny bursts of laughter could be heard as a joke was told here and there.

But it was all tainted. The laughs were nervous, the walks scattered with fearful trembles.

The Capitol had fallen. The rebels effectively owned Panem now, and nobody knew what lied ahead. In hushed whispers, those of the Capitol could only speculate. Would they start up a new perverted inversion of the Hunger games, where only children of their city would be forced to participate? Would they be exiled from their homes? Or would they all simply wake up one day to see the toxic bombs coating the Rocky Mountains in thick, poisonous sludge?

And it was anything but quiet. The rebels owned the city, but the Capitol's Peacekeepers were beyond fanatical. The rebellion was being forced to go building-by-building, cleaning up what resistance remained. When they found an "occupied" building, the titter-tatter of gunfire would flow out into the streets. People would stop in their steps, turning toward the sounds of battle. It would end one of two ways: the gunfire slowly winding down, or a fireball erupting over the skyline of the glittering city as the rebels just destroyed the building with explosives.

And when it was over, the civilians would go about their day as if nothing had happened.

Telly McMallenchire nervously paced down the clean streets of the Capitol. In one arm was slung her purse, accented with glowing lights of blue and cyan. Her pet dog, Ceaser, poked his head out of the purse's hole.

Ceaser began to growl. The little dog spotted one of the many rebels now patrolling the street, assault rifle slung under her shoulder. Her dark vest and dour expression was a stark contrast to those around her, and Ceaser didn't care for the unfamiliarity. He began to yap at the soldier, not stopping as the rebel neared.

"Shhhh!" Telly warned her dog, but Ceaser wouldn't shut up. The rebel continued to near them, and Ceaser only got angrier, baring his tiny teeth at the stranger.

The rebel was only a few feet away now. With Ceaser's outburst, she was surely to be shot in the street. Without any route of escape, Telly broke down and began to weep, her cries joining her dog's barking. After a few moments, the gunshot ending her life did not come, and she looked up with makeup-stained eyes to see the rebel not readying to kill her. Instead, she had passed Telly entirely, though not without shooting her a dirty look.

As the rebel retreated, Ceaser's barks stopped and returned to low growls. She soon realized that other people were staring, and she quickly recouped. Picking up her purse, she stood up and began to walk towards her favorite fashion store. At least something would go right today.

Rounding the corner, her heart sank. Crashed straight into the front of the store was a hovercraft, smoke still pouring out of the downed ship's engines.

She spotted one of her friends, Mary Goodsong, looking at the carnage as well. Though she meant well, Mary was probably the walking stereotype of a ditzy Capitol girl. She walked up to her side.

"What happened?" Telly asked.

"Peacekeeper hovercraft, I think. They shot it down while it was trying to escape the city."

Mary let out a long, exaggerated sigh. "I just don't see why they can't go out into the mountains to sort this out. All this fighting in the city is _rude!_ Don't they know we're busy people?"

Telly fought the urge to smack her upside the head.


	2. Please Stand By

When power was finally returned to the Capitol, the first thing many people did was turn on their television sets. However, this only revealed the great seal of Panem, with the bold words of "TEMPORARY INTERRUPTION" underneath the golden eagle's spread wings. Only briefly was the silence ever broken, usually broadcasting simple propos in favor of the rebellion.

More than a week passed by with this strange calm. Flickerman almost acted as a pulse to the city, and without him the Capitol's natural rhythm was thrown entirely out of tune. Many people turned on the TVs at the old scheduled times, always disappointed when his charming smile and unaging face were nowhere to be seen.

Then, one day, the screen changed. The seal remained on-screen, but the words at the bottom were replaced with "PLEASE STAND BY."

A little later, a time was added below the words. 3 PM.

Nobody knew what to expect. One Capitol family, the Daniel-Blakesons, had piled into the living room, eyes glued to the sets. School had been canceled and both parents' workplaces had been damaged in the fighting, forcing them into uncharacteristic time together.

"This is boring," Minnie Daniel-Blakeson complained, jumping up and down on her couch.

A low, but athoritative voice came from the other end of the couch. "Stop that," Mr. Blakeson commanded. His voice carried a hint of Mint St. Gold's, a rather expensive drink. He and his wife had been raiding the wine cellar ever since the rebellion happened, half-convinced the rebels were going to set their mansion on fire with them inside any day now anyway.

The old grandfather clock struck 3 PM. The seal on the TV immediately dissolved into static, slowly settling.

Minnie's eyes went wide and she pointed at the television. "Flickerman! It's Mr. Flickerman!"

Everyone else quickly jumped to attention and leaned in. Sure enough, it was Caesar Flickerman himself, sitting in a chair and weakly smiling at the camera. He had little makeup, and a bloody bandage was wrapped across the top of his head as if he'd had a concussion. What hair he had that wasn't covered by the bandage was tussled, and he looked like he hadn't slept in days. His composure said otherwise, and he maintained his solid air of confidence.

"Good evening, people of Panem!" he beamed. He leaned a bit closer, winking at the camera. "Well, that was a little lie. For tonight, this broadcast will be solely for the fine folks at the Capitol."

Mr. Blakeson weakly tossed his empty bottle in the direction of the television, grumbling. "Ah, damn. It's another propo."

Flickerman leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "And for tonight, I have a very special guest. A woman with an eye for the beautiful, coming to me to talk about next year's winter line of dresses."

The camera panned right. Sitting in the chair across from Flickerman was Dance Miraglen, one of the Capitol's most famous fashion designers. Like Flickerman, she seemed markedly worse for wear. She wasn't even wearing one of her elaborate white dresses, instead dressed in shockingly drab street clothes, all slightly torn. She maintained a dignified position like her host.

"So," Flickerman started "It's been a wild few weeks, hasn't it?"

The joke got a weak laugh out of Minnie and Charlie, and even a snort from Mr. Blakeson.

Miraglen laughed at the joke as well, nodding. "I'd say so, Ceaser! And it got me thinking: life really is unpredictable, and dangerous. It got me thinking, and my mind naturally wandered to the fierce mountaintops near our great city. Winds can freeze a person almost instantly, and I wanted to capture that savage randomness in my new line!"

The camera panned to a model on a makeshift runway to the right. True to her word, it was brand new dress. Radically different from anything she had designed before, it appeared to be crudely fashioned from animal pelts, accented with beats of leather straps and rope. The Daneil-Blakesons couldn't tell if the look was intentional or if Miraglen just threw it together at the last second.

"I call it: _December's Fury_ ," the fashionista explained. "Barring any more excitement, I think I might be able to push out a few dozen by next January."

The low number wasn't odd; Miraglen almost always made only a select few dresses to drive up demand.

The conversation between Flickerman and Miraglen continued for another hour, filled with light jokes and idle banter. It was becoming plain to everyone what this broadcast was. Not a propaganda piece or declaration of triumph, but a simple attempt to return calm to the Capitol. A good old-fashioned Flickerman interview would give a sense of normalcy, and for at least one night the city's people would forget the ongoing military tribunals sentencing the most heinous of Snow's cronies to the firing squad.


	3. Now Taking Calls

Like loud, angry bulls, black APCs barreling down the wide ride of the Capitol had become a fact of life in the last few weeks. Some still carried the symbol of Panem, while others the great eagle of Panem scrubbed off and replaced it with the mockingjay.

Why there were always in such a hurry, nobody really knew. The citizens of the Capitol had more or less accepted the rebels were there to stay.

Truth was, there wasn't a particular reason for the rebels' flagrant disregard for traffic safety. Besides one of Snow's cabinet or a particularly infamous Gamemaker being spotted, the rebels didn't have much to do. "Official orders" were to maintain an even presence around the city, but in practice it meant getting leadfoot and scaring the hell out of pedestrians.

One of the rebels, Jack, was sitting in the driver's sit, his vehicle driving down what used to be the road used for chariots. He was listening to Free Panem Radio, the rebels' pirate radio station and now technically the voice of the new Panem government. The announcer's voice was clear as crystal, a result of operating out of a radio station in the Capitol proper. It certainly beat the old days of them broadcasting out of a shack in the woods somewhere, but Jack almost missed the scratchy and near impossible-to-understand audio.

The people of the Capitol were hideous and evil, but at least they made good music. The pop song playing on the radio began to fade, and the announcer's voice came in.

"Alright. It is 11 AM Capitol Time, and Free Panem is now taking calls."

Jack sat up straight in his seat. He loved these. It was always one of three things: a district civilian calling to gloat about the rebellion being successful, a Capitol citizen asking a hilariously naive question, or a Capitol citizen that was really, really salty about the rebellion happening. The first two were good for a laugh, and like Flickerman, the announcer was talented at deflecting criticism from the last group.

The announcer spoke again. "Looks like we have a call from one...Reena. Alright Reena, you're on Free Panem. What's on your mind?"

A squeaky voice answered. Definitely from the Capitol. "Yes, I'd like to volunteer."

There was a pause, and the announcer answered in a confused tone. "I'm sorry?"

"I'd like to volunteer as tribute."

Another pause. Jack heard the announcer force down a chuckle, then answer. "Ma'am, you can't do that."

"Oh. So do I do a bunch of those Tesswhatevers?"

"Tessera. And no."

The squeaky sounded legitimately annoyed. "Why not?"

"Ma'am, regardless of what you've heard, there will be no 76th Hunger Games. That matter has been settled."

"But I go to the gym every day! I-"

There came the sound of shuffling over the radio as the announcer apparently leaned in to his microphone.

"If you have some idea about glory and honor and sacrifice that the old video went on about, I will tell you this right now: they were _lies._ People _died_ in the Hunger Games. Horribly. Children were _murdered!_ And we're not going to repeat that just because you can run a few miles on a treadmill."

The caller didn't responded, and ended the exchange by hanging up.

A sigh came over the radio. "Sorry folks, I'm just getting tired of answering this question. So to reiterate: Panem officially and unconditionally renounces the Hunger Games, and any form of contest resembling the Hunger Games. Great, now I'm all pissed off. Uh, let's listen to a little Bonnie Warbonnet and we'll return to calls in a bit."

More Capitol pop music began to play, its beats and throbs almost addicting. The music was then interrupted by a burst of static as a rebels' voice interrupted Jack's music.

"Jack, where are you?"

He pressed the reply button. "The chariot road. Why?"

"We found another statue of Snow."

"So blow it up?"

"Yeah, this one's kind of in the side of a building. Yours is the one with the tow cable ain't it?"

Jack sighed. "Yeah."

"Okay, we're a little north of Point 9. You'll see our trucks parked next to the alley. You and Fred should probably be able to pull it out."

"10-4."

He let go of the radio button. Positive that this plan would backfire horribly, he still turned his APC around on the wide road and drove toward the rendezvous.


	4. War Crimes

"Name."

He winced at the camera flashes that followed, aimed at either him or the ones sitting across from him. The "Capitol Investigative" Tribunal. Composed entirely of former rebels, they looked at him with slightly bored expressions. They had dozens, hundreds of cases to go through every day.

Sindi Vrikki froze. She never dealt well with large crowds, and the Tribunal's foreman didn't much appreciate her silence. He leaned in with a furrowed brow.

" _Name."_

Sini noticed one of the rebels militia placing his hand on the butt of his pistol. More than a few times they had to step in and deal with prisoners that did something stupid or desperate.

She cleared her throat and spoke into the microphone in front of her.

"Sindi Glee Vrikki."

The foreman shuffled through some papers on his desk, picking out one and squinting at it through his thin glasses.

"Records show that you worked for the Capitol government under the administration of President Snow. Is that correct?"

She beared the pulse of more camera flashes before responding. "Yes."

"Are you aware of the crimes you committed under President Snow?"

The hard question. They didn't let those they'd arrested watch the trials before them. Everyone had to come up with their own answer.

"I—" she began, her shoulders sulking.

"I was an editor."

The rebel didn't appear satisfied with her reply, scratching the bridge of his nose. "Please elaborate."

She squirmed in her basic, metal chair. "Every morning, I would be given a few hours of surveillance taken from all over Panem. I'd..."enhance" whatever might cast the country or Snow in a bad light. Most of it was bad, but I'd salvage whatever good I could from the stuff they gave me. Everything else I'd mark for destruction. I was given a lot of leeway to do my work; I think only twice they sent something back for a better re-edit."

She saw one of the tribunal members lean over and whisper something to the foreman. She couldn't hear it, but saw her mouth the words "propoist". He nodded, leaning back to his mic.

"What footage would you discard?"

She opened her mouth, but couldn't work up the nerve to give a straight answer. "You'd have to have a strong stomach to do what I did."

The foreman scowled at her non-answer, and placed both hands on the desk. Right at he opened his mouth, the rebel to his left whispered something in his ear. He gave her a strange look, but seemed to calm down and relax back into his seat.

After shuffling his papers again, he looked back at Sindi.

"I'm, uh, I'm gonna read a list of crimes we know were committed under President Snow. If you were witness to these crimes via the footage handed to you for editing, please raise your hand. Lower it if you did not see the mentioned crime."

She nodded, the muscles in her arm tightening.

"Arbitrary arrest."

Her right hand slowly rose from her lap, hanging in the air like a floating dead albatross.

"Inhumane holding conditions."

Her hand stayed up.

"Corruption by Peacekeepers not limited to bribery, failure to respond to noteworthy disturbances, and nepotism within the ranks."

Her fingers grew heavy.

"Unlawful seizure of goods by government forces."

They began to shake.

"Destruction of property with the objective of obtaining compliance."

Her lungs were tingling.

"Murder of innocent civilians."

Tears began to form at the corner of her eyes. It took everything she had to keep from openly weeping in the makeshift courtroom.

The tribunal talked among itself for a moment before turning their attention back to her.

"Was your employment voluntary?"

"In primary school, we were once asked to do a project to make a video glorifying Panem, you know, to inspire the other districts. I worked really hard on mine, and then one day a man from Mr...President Snow's cabinet came by my house and said I had a gift. After that, I worked at the Truth Building."

"Were you threatened if you declined?"

"Not at first, no."

"Then why did you stay?"

"I wasn't threatened at first, but after I began to work there, they started asking for more and more. Longer hours, better editing, everything. More than a few times they said they'd move my family to District 3 if my work didn't deliver."

The foreman mumbled something to the tune of "threat of forced relocation" to his comrades.

"Did you ever feel as if your job was necessary?"

"I never really knew why they didn't just toss everything away. You know, to be sure."

"What do you plan to do now?"

"I don't know."

The foreman nodded, rubbing his chin as he did so. Sindi's heart skipped a beat as he reached for his gavel.

"Sindi Glee Vrikki."

She took a deep breath.

"Please repeat to this court your transgressions."

"I—I censored footage critical to President Snow."

He picked up his wooden instrument. "However, evidence suggests you did so under a manner of implied violence. We also do not see any evidence that you did so out of loyalty to President Snow. While you were implicit in maintaining the propoganda of the old government of Panem, we cannot directly tie you to any major crimes. Based on this, this tribunal finds you Reconciled and offers general amnesty."

She blinked. "W-what?"

The foreman banged his gavel. A strong, sturdy grip squeezed one of her arms, and she suddenly found herself being escorted away from her table by a surly rebel soldier.

"Next!" the foreman said, not even watching Sindi as she was ejected from the courtroom.

None too gently pushed out the re-purposed bank's heavy double doors, she barely had time to ask what was going on when the rebel slammed the doors shut behind her. In the lobby were dozens more Capitol citizens, all having gone through the same process as Sindi. "Innocent", but almost certainly now without jobs or a solid future.

She joined them, sitting on one of the stone slab benches and huffing through her pink wig.


	5. You Load Thirteen Tons

Every day, the coal mine would have new visitors. Sticking out more than candy on black tar, they walked though the filthy coal dust. A few would always have a handkerchief up to their mouths, others coughing wildly at the filthy air their lungs had never breathed.

And behind them, a guard, always scowling.

They started to call them The Marches. Capitol residents guilty of things not horrible enough to deserve the firing squad, but too terrible to warrant amnesty, were forced to walk through the poorest of each District at gunpoint. The rebels would stop people from outright assaulting them, but that didn't prevent civilians from hurling every insult under the sun at them.

But not District 12. Everywhere they went, they were given only silent glares.

Halfway through their "tour", they stopped. Their guard walked in front of the group, and held out his arms.

"And here's where we part ways for a while. I'm going back to the entrance. So here's your homework: just wander around the mine and interact with it, then meet me back at the front at, oh, 5 PM. Talk to the workers here, pick up a jackhammer, but either make yourself useful or learn something about this place. And the miners here will tell me if you slack off, so don't."

And with that, the rebel turned around and left, humming a low tune to himself.

The Capitol civilians spread out. Time stood still in the sunless caves of the mine, but the guard was surprised most of them actually found their way to the front of the mine at the time he stated. He did a quick head-count and came short two. Looking past the ones that had returned, he spotted the missing two. One was sitting down against the mine wall, staring ahead blankly while the other was trying to shake him.

The guard walked over, eyebrow raised. Over the sounds of industry, he heard the woman shouting at the sitting man.

"Get _up!_ Why won't you say anything?"

"Problem?" the guard asked half-seriously. The looked down at the Capitol civilian, dressed in a brilliant shimmering white suit, arms wrapped around his legs.

"Hey, buddy," the guard said, "Tour's over."

The man blinked, then croaked a sentence.

"Kids worked here."

The woman tugged his arm again, but the rebel shooed her off. "We'll come back for him tomorrow."

He looked down. "That okay with you?"

No answer.

"Alrighty then."


	6. A Touch of Class

Grudges just weren't present in the Capitol, they were practically a sport. With plenty of idle time on their hands, those of the Capitol would have anger from party faux pas and declined dinner invitations would simmer for years, hardening into long histories of veiled insults and biting remarks. But never open argument; everyone had a reputation to keep, after all.

The rebellion had changed that.

While Paylor could shut down any fight with little more than a raised voice, she was actually enjoying the current back-and-forth playing out in front of her. A Capitol man and women, standing across from each other with two flags in their arms. They pointed at each other and traded insults, unaware that their accents made them sound like two mice in a drunken brawl. The woman held a flag that was markedly similar to the Panem's, though the great golden eagle had been seamlessly replaced with a golden mockingjay. The man held something different, a red field with a white star in the center. Around it, 13 smaller stars.

Grande Metaphisa and Alexand le Proguis, respectively. Two of the city's most respected designers, and mortal enemies. They both demanded to speak with Paylor literally the hour after word got out that they were considering changing the flag. The acting president and the others hadn't even decided _if_ they were going to change it. All the same, the two were now in front of her, each trying to have their own design chosen as the new symbol for Panem. Revolution or no, getting their design chosen meant gloating rights, the only currency really worth anything in the Capitol.

"And why did you change the color?" Metaphisa shouted. "Your colors aren't even! It looks like you cut someone and just smeared their blood on a napkin!"

"You'd know a lot about consistency, wouldn't you, you, plagiarist _!"_

"Hack!"

"Tracer!"

Paylor held up a hand. "Stop."

They both obeyed instantly.

"You two have done nothing but argue since you walked in here. Why don't you each explain the _positive_ parts of your flags?"

She pointed at Metaphisa. "You first."

Grande stepped forward, folding out her flag in front of the Commander. A coy smile accompanied her description.

"As you can see, I opted for familiarity, something _some people_ would do away with. The seal is redesigned slightly, and now the beautiful mockingjay is prominent on the flag."

"Why does it have more arrows in its mouth?"

"Well, eight. Same number the eagle carries? I want to say to the people of Panem _there have been some necessary changes, but order will prevail!_ "

"Hmph. Now you, Proguis."

Grande stepped back as the other designer folded out his flag. He cleared his throat.

"It's quite apparent that this is a fairly significant departure to the old flag. The star represents Panem, each district forming a smaller but crucial part of the whole. No laurel wreathes or pseudo-aspirations to royalty, and certainly _no roundabout glorification of old Panem._ Simple, clean, and new."

"Does digging something out of the trash count as 'new'?" Grande sneered.

He forced the flag into one hand and pointed at her. "That's big goddamn talk coming from someone didn't even attend last year's fashion show!"

"Unlike _you_ , I'm busy!"

"You were drunk and everyone kn—"

"Stop," Paylor once again commanded. "Why don't we just combine the designs? Say, the stars around Grande's design?"

They both stopped, craning their heads toward the commander. Both of them had equally outrageous expressions of disgust.

"Did you just suggest what I think you did?" Proguis muttered, one eyebrow cocked.

" _Design by committee?_ " Grande said, finishing Proguis' thought.

After a moment, Alexand huffed and began wadding up his flag. "I—I'm sorry. I just came here under the impression that you wanted a flag, not a cave drawing. "

"Do you even _know_ what vexillology is?" Grande asked with equally haughty tone. "Oh who am I kidding, of course you don't."

Paylor was too shocked to respond; it was the first time in a while since anyone had ever talked back to her.

"I withdraw my design," Alexand spat, tossing his flag off to the side.

Grande threw hers away dramatically as well. "Me too."

They both turned, loudly talking about Paylor's complete ignorance of good design.

When they were gone from the office, the commander rolled her eyes. At least they found common ground on something.


	7. Voice to the Voiceless

It was an unnatural darkness.

The Capitol, once a shining jewel at night, had been reduced to a few pinpricks of light in the mountains. Electricity had been restored, but rolling blackouts were common as the new government redistributed power to the more damaged districts. It was only temporary, they said.

Julus was walking home, hands shoved deep in his coat's many bejeweled pockets. With public transporation being commandeered by the rebels, he had no choice but to hoof it. Even then, not being used to the city's usual second sun of bright advertisements and media made him almost blind in the streets; he'd gotten lost for hours several night before.

He noticed several lights on the street ahead. Squinting to see what it was, his shoulders suddenly dropped.

"Ah, crap."

It was a checkpoint. Several of the rebel vehicles had blocked off the road, checking each Capitol resident that wandered through. It was their favorite way of catching anyone on the 'blacklist'. Julus was pretty sure he hadn't done anything in the last few years to warrant arrest now, but he wasn't going to risk it. Turning and heading into a large alley, he thought he spotted something move out of the corner of his eye. Quickly looking behind him, he saw nothing but a single rebel soldier idly patrolling on the other side of the street.

He shrugged, continuing his walk.

Again, something, large and dark, darted at the edge of his vision. Once again he spun around, scanning the shadows.

"Hello?" he asked the darkness.

Julus was answered with a heavy * **thud*,** and something sliding against the wall. Slowly turing to where he'd heard the noise, he saw something dark crumpled against the alley's walls, and the sound of retreating footsteps. Whatever it was, it wasn't moving.

One step toward the thing. "Hello?"

He edged towards it, moving farther and farther from the few lights on the streets outside. His eyes began to adjust, and the dark blob became clearer and clearer until-

His body tensed, and he covered his mouth to muffle the scream.

Bloody, dead, was a Capitol man. His face was covered in bruises, head hanging down to one side. Blackened eyes, brown and purple skin, and his mouth caked with blood. Almost as if his tongue had been-

Then he saw the words carved on his chest.

 _ **WE CAN TALK NOW**_

"Oh, _shit."_

He was given only a few seconds to read the words before something hard and blunt hit the back of his leg. Forced down to one knee, another blow to his arm send him to the concrete, clutching it in pain. He tried to right himself, but a boot forced itself down on his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw them.

Avoxes.

He half-expected them to taunt him with slurred words, but they said nothing. One stepped forward, taking out a large knife.

Julus screamed. He'd been forced down facing the street he'd walked in from, and by chance the rebel he'd seen moments before was walking by.

"Help!" he screamed. "Help me!"

The soldier jumped, looking down the alley, straight at Julus and his attackers.

He buckled, but the Avoxes forced him back down. "They're going to kill me!"

The soldier stood there for a second, and then kept walking, disappearing from the alley.

"No! I'm going to di-"

He was interrupted by the boot slamming on his cheek. Any other pleas for help he had in him were lost as the beating commenced.


End file.
